Harriet Potter
by thegenderbender1
Summary: What happens when you read the Potter series with every character gender-swapped? The goal of this fic is not to be original (in fact, I'm trying to minimize all changes from the original text). Reading this is less about the text itself and more about your reaction as the reader. Which of the changes feel better or worse, awkward or cool, sexist or empowering, absurd or awesome?
1. The Girl who Lived

**The Girl who Lived**

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mrs. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. She was a big, beefy woman with hardly any neck, although she did have a very large mole. Mr. Dursley was thin and blond and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as he spent so much of his time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small daughter called Darby and in their opinion there was no finer girl anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mr. Dursley's brother, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mr. Dursley pretended he didn't have a brother, because his brother and his good-for-nothing wife were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small daughter, too, but they had never even seen her. This girl was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Darby mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mrs. Dursley hummed as she picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mr. Dursley gossiped away happily as he wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mrs. Dursley picked up her briefcase, pecked Mr. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Darby good-bye but missed, because Darby was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mrs. Dursley as she left the house. She got into her car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that she noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what she had seen — then she jerked her head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could she have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mrs. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mrs. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, she watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mrs. Dursley gave herself a little shake and put the cat out of her mind. As she drove toward town she thought of nothing except a large order of drills she was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of her mind by something else. As she sat in the usual morning traffic jam, she couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mrs. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! She supposed this was some stupid new fashion. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and her eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mrs. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that woman had to be older than she was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of her! But then it struck Mrs. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt —these people were obviously collecting for something… yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mrs. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, her mind back on drills.

Mrs. Dursley always sat with her back to the window in her office on the ninth floor. If she hadn't, she might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. She didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mrs. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. She yelled at five different people. She made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. She was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when she thought she'd stretch her legs and walk across the road to buy herself a bun from the bakery.

She'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until she passed a group of them next to the baker's. She eyed them angrily as she passed. She didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and she couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on her way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that she caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard —"

" — yes, their daughter, Harry —"

Mrs. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded her. She looked back at the whisperers as if she wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

She dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at her secretary not to disturb her, seized her telephone, and had almost finished dialing her home number when she changed her mind. She put the receiver back down and stroked her mole, thinking… no, she was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. She was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a daughter called Harry. Come to think of it, she wasn't even sure her niece was called Harry. She'd never even seen the girl. It might have been Haddie. Or Hannah. There was no point in worrying Mr. Dursley; he always got so upset at any mention of his brother. She didn't blame him — if she'd had a brother like that… but all the same, those people in cloaks…

She found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when she left the building at five o'clock, she was still so worried that she walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," she grunted, as the tiny old woman stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mrs. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. She didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, her face split into a wide smile and she said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear madam, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old woman hugged Mrs. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mrs. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. She had been hugged by a complete stranger. She also thought she had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. She was rattled. She hurried to her car and set off for home, hoping she was imagining things, which she had never hoped before, because she didn't approve of imagination.

As she pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing she saw—and it didn't improve her mood — was the tabby cat she'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on her garden wall. She was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mrs. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave her a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mrs. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull herself together, she let herself into the house. She was still determined not to mention anything to her husband.

Mr. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. He told him over dinner all about Mr. Next Door's problems with her son and how Darby had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mrs. Dursley tried to act normally. When Darby had been put to bed, she went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed herself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jan McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jan?"

"Well, Terry," said the weatherwoman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mrs. Dursley sat frozen in her armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters…

Mr. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. She'd have to say something to him. She cleared her throat nervously. "Er — Peter, dear — you haven't heard from your brother lately, have you?"

As she had expected, Mr. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended he didn't have a brother.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mrs. Dursley mumbled. "Owls… shooting stars… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…"

"So?" snapped Mr. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her crowd."

Mr. Dursley sipped his tea through pursed lips. Mrs. Dursley wondered whether she dared tell him she'd heard the name "Potter." She decided she didn't dare. Instead she said, as casually as she could, "Their daughter — she'd be about Darby's age now, wouldn't she?"

"I suppose so," said Mr. Dursley stiffly.

"What's her name again? Haddie, isn't it?"

"Harriet, but they call her Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Dursley, her heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

She didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mr. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mrs. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was she imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, she didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mr. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mrs. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. Her last, comforting thought before she fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near her and Mr. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what she and Peter thought about them and their kind… She couldn't see how she and Peter could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — she yawned and turned over — it couldn't affect them…

How very wrong she was.

Mrs. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A woman appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought she'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this woman had ever been seen on Privet Drive. She was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of her hair, which was long enough to tuck into her belt. She was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. Her blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and her nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This woman's name was Alba Dumbledore.

Alba Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that she had just arrived in a street where everything from her name to her boots was unwelcome. She was busy rummaging in her cloak, looking for something. But she did seem to realize she was being watched, because she looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at her from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse her. She chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

She found what she was looking for in her inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. She flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. She clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times she clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mr. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside her cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where she sat down on the wall next to the cat. She didn't look at it, but after a moment she spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall." She turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead she was smiling at a rather severe-looking man who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. He, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. His black hair was drawn into a tight bun. He looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," he said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no — even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." He jerked his head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I'll bet that was Dedala Diggle. She never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

He threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping she was going to tell him something, but she didn't, so he went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose she really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though he didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone —"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call her by her name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense — for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call her by her proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too — well —noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Monsieur Pomfrey told me he liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why she's disappeared? About what finally stopped her?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point he was most anxious to discuss, the real reason he had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a man had he fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as he did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, he was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told him it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," he pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are — are — that they're — _dead_."

Dumbledore bowed her head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James… I can't believe it… I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Alba…"

Dumbledore reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "I know… I know…" she said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as he went on. "That's not all. They're saying she tried to kill the Potter's daughter, Harry. But she couldn't. She couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when she couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke — and that's why she's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's — it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all she's done… all the people she's killed… she couldn't kill a little girl? It's just astounding… of all the things to stop her… but how in the name of heaven did Harriet survive?"

"We can only guess." said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes beneath his spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as she took a golden watch from her pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because she put it back in her pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was she who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to her aunt and uncle. They're the only family she has left now."

"You don't mean – you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to his feet and pointing at number four.

"Dumbledore — you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this daughter — I saw her kicking her father all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harriet Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! She'll be famous — a legend — I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harriet Potter day in the future — there will be books written about Harry — every child in our world will know her name!"

"Exactly." said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of her half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any girl's head. Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something she won't even remember! Can you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from all that until she's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened his mouth, changed his mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes — yes, you're right, of course. But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?" He eyed her cloak suddenly as though he thought she might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing her."

"You think it —wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying her heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend she's not careless. She does tend to — what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the woman sitting astride it. She was almost twice as tall as a normal woman and at least five times as wide. She looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair hid most of her face, she had hands the size of trash can lids, and her feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In her vast, muscular arms she was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, ma'am," said the giantess, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as she spoke. "Young Sira Black lent it to me. I've got her, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, ma'am — house was almost destroyed, but I got her out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. She fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby girl, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over her forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where —?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well — give her here, Hagrid — we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harriet in her arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I — could I say good-bye to her, ma'am?" asked Hagrid. She bent her great, shaggy head over Harry and gave her what must have been a very scratchy kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying her face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it —Lily an' James dead — an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. She laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of her cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, ma'am."

Wiping her streaming eyes on her jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung herself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to him. Professor McGonagall blew his nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner she stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. She clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and she could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. She could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," she murmured. She turned on her heel and with a swish of his cloak, she was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harriet Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside her and she slept on, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few hours' time by Mr. Dursley's scream as he opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that she would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by her cousin Darby… She couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harriet Potter — the girl who lived!"


	2. The Vanishing Glass

**The Vanishing Glass**

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their niece on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mrs. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets — but Darby Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blonde girl riding her first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with her mother, being hugged and kissed by her father. The room held no sign at all that another girl lived in the house, too.

Yet Harriet Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Her Uncle Peter was awake and it was his shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Harry woke with a start. Her uncle rapped on the door again.

"Up!" he screeched. Harry heard him walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. She rolled onto her back and tried to remember the dream she had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. She had a funny feeling she'd had the same dream before.

Her uncle was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" he demanded.

"Nearly," said Harry.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Darby's birthday."

Harry groaned.

"What did you say?" her uncle snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing…"

Darby's birthday — how could she have forgotten? Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. She found a pair under her bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where she slept.

When she was dressed she went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Darby's birthday presents. It looked as though Darby had gotten the new computer she wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Darby wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Darby was very fat and hated exercise — unless of course it involved punching somebody. Darby's favorite punching bag was Harry, but she couldn't often catch her. Harry didn't look it, but she was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for her age. She looked even smaller and skinnier than she really was because all she had to wear were old clothes of Darby's, and Darby was about four times bigger than she was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. She wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Darby had punched her on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about her own appearance was a very thin scar on her forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. She had had it as long as she could remember, and the first question she could ever remember asking his Uncle Peter was how she had gotten it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," he had said. "And don't ask questions."

 _Don't ask questions_ — that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Aunt Vera entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.

"Comb your hair!" she barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Aunt Vera looked over the top of her newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the girls in her class put together, but it made no difference, her hair simply grew that way — all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Darby arrived in the kitchen with her father. Darby looked a lot like Aunt Vera. She had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on her thick, fat head. Uncle Peter often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel — Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Darby, meanwhile, was counting her presents. Her face fell.

"Thirty-six," she said, looking up at her mother and father. "That's two less than last year." "Darling, you haven't counted Uncle Mark's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Darby, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Darby tantrum coming on, began wolfing down her bacon as fast as possible in case Darby turned the table over.

Uncle Peter obviously scented danger, too, because he said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?" Darby thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally she said slowly, "So I'll have thirty… thirty…"

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Uncle Peter.

"Oh." Darby sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Aunt Vera chuckled.

"Little tyke wants her money's worth, just like her mother. 'Atta girl, Darby!" She ruffled Darby's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Uncle Peter went to answer it while Harry and Aunt Vera watched Darby unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. She was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Uncle Peter came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vera," he said. "Mr. Figg's broken his leg. He can't take her." He jerked his head in Harriet's direction.

Darby's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a leap. Every year on Darby's birthday, her parents took her and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harriet was left behind with Mr. Figg, a mad old man who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mr. Figg made her look at photographs of all the cats he'd ever owned.

"Now what?" said Uncle Peter, looking furiously at Harry as though she'd planned this. Harry knew she ought to feel sorry that Mr. Figg had broken his leg, but it wasn't easy when she reminded herself it would be a whole year before she had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mrs. Paws, and Tufty again.

"We could phone Mark," Aunt Vera suggested.

"Don't be silly, Vera, he hates the girl."

The Dursleys often spoke about Harriet like this, as though she wasn't there — or rather, as though she was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug.

"What about what's-his-name, your friend — Yves?"

"On vacation in Majorca," snapped Uncle Peter.

"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (she'd be able to watch what she wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Darby's computer).

Uncle Peter looked as though he'd just swallowed a lemon.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" he snarled.

"I won't blow up the house," said Harriet, but they weren't listening.

"I suppose we could take her to the zoo," said Uncle Peter slowly, "… and leave her in the car…"

"That car's new, she's not sitting in it alone…"

Darby began to cry loudly. In fact, she wasn't really crying — it had been years since she'd really cried — but she knew that if she screwed up her face and wailed, her father would give her anything she wanted.

"Dinky Darbydums, don't cry, Daddy won't let her spoil your special day!" he cried, flinging his arms around her.

"I… don't… want… her… t-t-to come!" Darby yelled between huge, pretend sobs. "She always sp-spoils everything!" She shot Harriet a nasty grin through the gap in her father's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang — "Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Uncle Peter frantically — and a moment later, Darby's best friend, Petra Polkiss, walked in with her father. Petra was a scrawny girl with a face like a rat. She was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Darby hit them. Darby stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe her luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Petra and Darby, on the way to the zoo for the first time in her life. Her aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with her, but before they'd left, Aunt had taken Harriet aside.

"I'm warning you," she had said, putting her large purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, girl — any funny business, anything at all — and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly…"

But Aunt Vera didn't believe her. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys she didn't make them happen.

Once, Uncle Peter, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though she hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut her hair so short she was almost bald except for her bangs, which he left "to hide that horrible scar." Darby had laughed herself silly at Harriet, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where she was already laughed at for her baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, she had gotten up to find her hair exactly as it had been before Uncle Peter had sheared it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had tried to explain that she couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Uncle Peter had been trying to force her into a revolting old sweater of Darby's (brown with orange puff balls). The harder he tried to pull it over her head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Harriet. Uncle Peter had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to her great relief, Harry wasn't punished.

On the other hand, she'd gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Darby's gang had been chasing her as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there she was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry's headmaster telling them Harriet had been climbing school buildings. But all she'd tried to do (as he shouted at Aunt Vera through the locked door of her cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught her in mid-jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Darby and Petra to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, her cupboard, or Mr. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room.

While she drove, Aunt Vera complained to Uncle Peter. She liked to complain about things: people at work, Harriet, the council, Harriet, the bank, and Harriet were just a few of her favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"… roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," she said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It was flying."

Aunt Vera nearly crashed into the car in front. She turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, her face like a gigantic beet with a mole: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Darby and Petra sniggered.

"I know they don't," said Harry. "It was only a dream."

But she wished she hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than her asking questions, it was her talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon — they seemed to think she might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Darby and Petra large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what she wanted before they could hurry her away, they bought her a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkably like Darby, except that it wasn't blonde.

Harriet had the best morning she'd had in a long time. She was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Darby and Petra, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting her. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Darby had a tantrum because her knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Aunt Vera bought her another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first.

Harry felt, afterward, that she should have known it was all too good to last.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Darby and Petra wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Darby quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Aunt Vera's car and crushed it into a trash can — but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Darby stood with her nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," she whined at her mother. Aunt Vera tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Darby ordered. Aunt Vera rapped the glass smartly with her knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Darby moaned. She shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. She wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself — no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Uncle Peter hammering on the door to wake you up; at least she got to visit the rest of the house.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harriet's.

 _It winked._

Harry stared. Then she looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. She looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Aunt Vera and Darby, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:

" _I get that all the time_."

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though she wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see — so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump.

"DARBY! MRS. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Darby came waddling toward them as fast as she could.

"Out of the way, you," she said, punching Harriet in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened — one second, Petra and Darby were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come… Thanksss, amigo."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

"But the glass," she kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director herself made Uncle Peter a cup of strong, sweet tea while she apologized over and over again. Petra and Darby could only gibber. As far as Harriet had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Aunt Vera's car, Darby was telling them how it had nearly bitten off her leg, while Petra was swearing it had tried to squeeze her to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Petra calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"

Aunt Vera waited until Petra was safely out of the house before starting on Harriet. She was so angry she could hardly speak. She managed to say, "Go — cupboard — stay — no meals," before she collapsed into a chair, and Uncle Peter had to run and get her a large brandy.

Harry lay in her dark cupboard much later, wishing she had a watch. She didn't know what time it was, and she couldn't be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, she couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food.

She'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as she could remember, ever since she'd been a baby and her parents had died in that car crash. She couldn't remember being in the car when her parents had died. Sometimes, when she strained her memory during long hours in her cupboard, she came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on her forehead. This, she supposed, was the crash, though she couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. She couldn't remember her parents at all. Her aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course she was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When she had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take her away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were her only family. Yet sometimes she thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know her. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny woman in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while out shopping with Uncle Peter and Darby. After asking Harriet furiously if she knew the man, Uncle Peter had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old man dressed all in green had waved merrily at her once on a bus. A bald woman in a very long purple coat had actually shaken her hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harriet tried to get a closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Darby's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in her baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Darby's gang.


	3. Letters From No One

**Letters From No One**

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harriet her longest-ever punishment. By the time she was allowed out of her cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Darby had already broken her new video camera, crashed her remote control airplane, and, first time out on her racing bike, knocked down old Mr. Figg as he crossed Privet Drive on his crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Darby's gang, who visited the house every single day. Petra, Dawn, Mallory, and Georgia were all big and stupid, but as Darby was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, she was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Darby's favorite sport: Harriet Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where she could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came she would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn't be with Darby. Darby had been accepted at Aunt Vera's old private school, Smeltings. Petra Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Darby thought this was very funny.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," she told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it — it might be sick." Then she ran, before Darby could work out what she'd said.

One day in July, Uncle Peter took Darby to London to buy her Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mr. Figg's. Mr. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. It turned out he'd broken his leg tripping over one of his cats, and he didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. He let Harry watch television and gave her a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though he'd had it for several years.

That evening, Darby paraded around the living room for the family in her brand-new uniform. Smeltings' girls wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As she looked at Darby in her new knickerbockers, Aunt Vera said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of her life. Uncle Peter burst into tears and said he couldn't believe it was her Ickle Darbykins, she looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust herself to speak. She thought two of her ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harriet went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. She went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

"What's this?" she asked Uncle Peter. His lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.

"Your new school uniform," he said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

"Oh," she said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Uncle Peter. "I'm dyeing some of Darby's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. She sat down at the table and tried not to think about how she was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High — like she was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

Darby and Aunt Vera came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Aunt Vera opened her newspaper as usual and Darby banged her Smelting stick, which she carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Darby," said Aunt Vera from behind her paper.

"Make Harriet get it."

"Get the mail, Harriet."

"Make Darby get it."

"Poke her with your Smelting stick, Darby."

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Aunt Vera's brother Mark, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and — a letter for Harry. Harry picked it up and stared at it, her heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to her. Who would? She had no friends, no other relatives — she didn't belong to the library, so she'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

 _Miss H. Potter_

 _The Cupboard under the Stairs_

 _4 Privet Drive_

 _Little Whinging_

 _Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, her hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter _H_.

"Hurry up, girl!" shouted Aunt Vera from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" She chuckled at her own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at her letter. She handed Aunt Vera the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope.

Aunt Vera ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

"Mark's ill," she informed Uncle Peter. "Ate a funny whelk…"

"Mum!" said Darby suddenly. "Mum, Harry's got something!"

Harriet was on the point of unfolding her letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of her hand by Aunt Vera.

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Aunt Vera, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. Her face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Peter!" she gasped. Darby tried to grab the letter to read it, but Aunt Vera held it high out of his reach. Uncle Peter took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though he might faint. He clutched his throat and made a choking noise.

"Vera! Oh my goodness — Vera!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Darby were still in the room. Darby wasn't used to being ignored. She gave her mother a sharp tap on the head with her Smelting stick.

"I want to read that letter," she said loudly.

"I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," croaked Aunt Vera, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn't move.

"I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.

"Let me see it!" demanded Darby.

"OUT!" roared Aunt Vera, and she took both Harry and Darby by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Darby promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Darby won, so Harry, her glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

"Vera," Uncle Peter was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address — how could they possibly know where she sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"

"Watching — spying — might be following us," muttered Aunt Vera wildly.

"But what should we do, Vera? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want —"

Harry could see Aunt Vera's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

"No," she said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer… Yes, that's best… we won't do anything…"

"But —"

"I'm not having one in the house, Peter! Didn't we swear when we took her in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

That evening when she got back from work, Aunt Vera did something she'd never done before; she visited Harry in her cupboard.

"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Aunt Vera had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake," said Aunt Vera shortly. "I have burned it."

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" yelled Aunt Vera, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. She took a few deep breaths and then forced her face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

"Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your uncle and I have been thinking… you're really getting a bit big for it… we think it might be nice if you moved into Darby's second bedroom.

"Why?" said Harry.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped her aunt. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Aunt Vera and Uncle Peter, one for visitors (usually Aunt Vera's brother, Mark), one where Darby slept, and one where Darby kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into her first bedroom. It only took Harriet one trip upstairs to move everything she owned from the cupboard to this room. She sat down on the bed and stared around her. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Darby had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Darby's first-ever television set, which she'd put her foot through when her favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Darby had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Darby had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Darby bawling at her father, "I don't want her in there… I need that room… make her get out…"

Harriet sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday she'd have given anything to be up here. Today she'd rather be back in her cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Darby was in shock. She'd screamed, whacked her mother with her Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his father, and thrown her tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and she still didn't have her room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing she'd opened the letter in the hall. Aunt Vera and Uncle Peter kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Aunt Vera, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Darby go and get it. They heard her banging things with her Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then she shouted, "There's another one! 'Miss H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive —'"

With a strangled cry, Aunt Vera leapt from her seat and ran down the hall, Harriet right behind her. Aunt Vera had to wrestle Darby to the ground to get the letter from her, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Aunt Vera around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Aunt Vera straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in her hand.

"Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom," she wheezed at Harry. "Darby — go — just go."

Harry walked round and round her new room. Someone knew she had moved out of her cupboard and they seemed to know she hadn't received her first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time she'd make sure they didn't fail. She had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. She mustn't wake the Dursleys. She stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

She was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. Her heart hammered as she crept across the dark hall toward the front door —

"AAAAARRRGH!"

Harry leapt into the air; she'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat — something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to her horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been her aunt's face. Aunt Vera had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what she'd been trying to do. She shouted at Harriet for about half an hour and then told her to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time she got back, the mail had arrived, right into Aunt Vera's lap. Harriet could see three letters addressed in green ink.

"I want —" she began, but Aunt Vera was tearing the letters into pieces before her eyes.

Aunt Vera didn't go to work that day. She stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," she explained to Uncle Peter through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vera."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Peter, they're not like you and me," said Aunt Vera, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Uncle Peter had just brought her.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

Aunt Vera stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, she got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. She hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as she worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harriet found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Uncle Peter through the living room window. While Aunt Vera made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Uncle Peter shredded the letters in his food processor.

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Darby asked Harry in amazement.

On Sunday morning, Aunt Vera sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," she reminded them cheerfully as she spread marmalade on her newspapers, "no damn letters today —"

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as she spoke and caught her sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one —

"Out! OUT!"

Aunt Vera seized Harry around the waist and threw her into the hall. When Uncle Peter and Darby had run out with their arms over their faces, Aunt Vera slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

"That does it," said Aunt Vera, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of her hair at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

She looked so dangerous with half her hair missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Darby was sniffling in the back seat; her mother had hit her round the head for holding them up while she tried to pack her television, VCR, and computer in her sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Uncle Peter didn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Aunt Vera would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

"Shake 'em off… shake 'em off," she would mutter whenever she did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Darby was howling. She'd never had such a bad day in his life. She was hungry, she'd missed five television programs she'd wanted to see, and she'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on her computer.

Aunt Vera stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Darby and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Darby snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering…

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Miss H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk."

He held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

 _Miss H. Potter_

 _Room 17_

 _Railview Hotel_

 _Cokeworth_

Harriet made a grab for the letter but Aunt Vera knocked her hand out of the way. The man stared.

"I'll take them," said Aunt Vera, standing up quickly and following him from the dining room.

"Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Uncle Peter suggested timidly, hours later, but Aunt Vera didn't seem to hear him. Exactly what she was looking for, none of them knew. She drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook her head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

"Mummy's gone mad, hasn't she?" Darby asked Uncle Peter dully late that afternoon. Aunt Vera had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Darby sniveled.

"It's Monday," she told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a _television_."

Monday. This reminded Harriet of something. If it was Monday — and you could usually count on Darby to know the days the week, because of television — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harriet's eleventh birthday. Of course, her birthdays were never exactly fun — last year, the Dursleys had given her a coat hanger and a pair of Aunt Vera's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Aunt Vera was back, and she was smiling. She was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Uncle Peter when he asked what she'd bought.

"Found the perfect place!" she said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was very cold outside the car. Aunt Vera was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Aunt Vera gleefully, clapping her hands together. "And this gentlewoman's kindly agreed to lend us her boat!"

A toothless old woman came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

"I've already got us some rations," said Aunt Vera, "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Aunt Vera, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Aunt Vera's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. She tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" she said cheerfully.

She was in a very good mood. Obviously she thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer her up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Uncle Peter found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Darby on the moth-eaten sofa. He and Aunt Vera went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harriet was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. She shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, her stomach rumbling with hunger. Darby's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Darby's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on her fat wrist, told Harry she'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. She lay and watched her birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. She hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although she might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that she'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and she'd be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten… nine — maybe she'd wake Darby up, just to annoy her — three… two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harriet sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.


	4. Keeper of the Keys

**The Keeper of the Keys**

BOOM. They knocked again. Darby jerked awake.

"Where's the cannon?" she said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Aunt Vera came skidding into the room. She was holding a rifle in her hands – now they knew what had been in the long, thin package she had brought with them.

"Who's there?" she shouted. "I warn you — I'm armed!"

There was a pause. Then —

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a woman was standing in the doorway. Her face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair, but you could make out her eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giantess squeezed her way into the hut, stooping so that her head just brushed the ceiling. She bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. She turned to look at them all.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey…"

She strode over to the sofa where Darby sat frozen with fear.

"Budge up, yeh great lump," said the stranger. Darby squeaked and ran to hide behind her father, who was crouching, terrified, behind Aunt Vera.

"An' here's Harry!" said the giant.

Harriet looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

"Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a lot like yer mum, but yeh've got yer dad's eyes."

Aunt Vera made a funny rasping noise. "I demand that you leave at once, ma'am!" she said. "You are breaking and entering!"

"Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giantess; she reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Aunt Vera's hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Aunt Vera made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

"Anyway — Harry," said the giant, turning her back on the Dursleys, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here — I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of her black overcoat she pulled a slightly squashed box. Harriet opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing.

Harry looked up at the giantess. She meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to her mouth, and what she said instead was, "Who are you?"

The giantess chuckled. "True, I haven't introduced meself. Ruby Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

She held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.

"What about that tea then, eh?" she said, rubbing her hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

Her eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and she snorted. She bent down over the fireplace; they couldn't see what she was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over her as though she'd sunk into a hot bath.

The giantess sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under her weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of her coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that she took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giantess was working, but as she slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Darby fidgeted a little. Aunt Vera said sharply, "Don't touch anything she gives you, Darby."

The giant chuckled darkly.

"Yer great puddin' of a daughter don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley, don' worry."

She passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry she had never tasted anything so wonderful, but she still couldn't take her eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, she said, "I'm sorry, but I still don't really know who you are."

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Call me Hagrid," she said, "everyone does. An' like I told yeh, I'm Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts — yeh'll know all about Hogwarts, o' course."

"Er — no," said Harriet.

Hagrid looked shocked.

"Sorry," Harry said quickly.

" _Sorry_?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. "It's them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren't gettin' yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know abou' Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yer parents learned it all?"

"All what?" asked Harry.

"ALL WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now wait jus' one second!"

She had leapt to her feet. In her anger she seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

"Do you mean ter tell me," she growled at the Dursleys, "that this girl — this girl! — knows nothin' abou' — about ANYTHING?"

Harry thought this was going a bit far. She had been to school, after all, and her marks weren't bad.

"I know _some_ things," she said. "I can, you know, do math and stuff."

But Hagrid simply waved her hand and said, "About _our_ world, I mean. _Your_ world. _My_ world. _Yer parents' world_."

"What world?"

Hagrid looked as if she was about to explode.

"DURSLEY!" she boomed.

Aunt Vera, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like "Mimblewimble." Hagrid stared wildly at Harry. "But yeh must know about yer mom and dad," she said. "I mean, they're _famous_. You're _famous_."

"What? My — my mom and dad weren't famous, were they?"

"Yeh don' know… yeh don' know…" Hagrid ran her fingers through her hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.

"Yeh don' know what yeh _are_?" she said finally.

Aunt Vera suddenly found her voice.

"Stop!" she commanded. "Stop right there, ma'am! I forbid you to tell the girl anything!"

A braver woman than Vera Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave her; when Hagrid spoke, her every syllable trembled with rage.

"You never told her? Never told her what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer her? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An' you've kept it from her all these years?"

"Kept what from me?" said Harriet eagerly.

"STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Aunt Vera in panic. Uncle Peter gave a gasp of horror.

"Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry — yer a witch."

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

"I'm a _what_?" gasped Harry.

"A witch, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good 'un, I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter."

Harriet stretched out her hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to _Miss H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea_. She pulled out the letter and read:

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _Headmistress: ALBA DUMBLEDORE_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Witch, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Miss Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minervo McGonagall,_

 _Deputy Headmaster_

Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks and she couldn't decide which to ask first. After a few minutes she stammered, "What does it mean, they await my owl?"

"Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a hand to her forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket inside her overcoat she pulled an owl — a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl — a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With her tongue between her teeth she scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down:

 _Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

 _Given Harry her letter._

 _Taking her to buy his things tomorrow._

 _Weather's horrible. Hope you're well._

 _Hagrid_

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then she came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

Harriet realized her mouth was open and closed it quickly.

"Where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Aunt Vera, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

"She's not going," she said.

Hagrid grunted.

"I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," she said.

"A what?" said Harry, interested.

"A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like them. An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on."

"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said Aunt Vera, "swore we'd stamp it out of her! Witch indeed!"

"You knew?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a — a witch?"

"Knew!" shrieked Uncle Peter suddenly. "Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted brother being what he was? Oh, he got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that — that school — and came home every vacation with his pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw him for what he was — a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a wizard in the family!"

He stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed he had been wanting to say all this for years.

"Then he met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as — as —abnormal — and then, if you please, he went and got himself blown up and we got landed with you!"

Harriet had gone very white. As soon as she found her voice she said, "Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!"

"CAR CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill Liam an' Jane Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harriet Potter not knowin' her own story when every kid in our world knows her name!"

"But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently.

The anger faded from Hagrid's face. She looked suddenly anxious.

"I never expected this," she said, in a low, worried voice. "I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh — but someone's gotta — yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'."

She threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

"Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh — mind, I can't tell yeh everythin', it's a great myst'ry, parts of it…"

She sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, "It begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but it's incredible yeh don't know her name, everyone in our world knows —"

"Who?"

"Well — I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Why not?"

"Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this witch who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. Her name was…" Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

"Could you write it down?" Harry suggested.

"Nah — can't spell it. All right —Voldemort. " Hagrid shuddered. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this — this witch, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too — some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' her power, 'cause she was gettin' herself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. She was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to her — an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway.

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on her side before… probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side.

"Maybe she thought she could persuade 'em… maybe she just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, she turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. She came ter yer house an' — an' —"

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew her nose with a sound like a foghorn.

"Sorry," she said. "But it's that sad — knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find — anywa…

"You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then — an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing — she tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe she just liked killin' by then. But she couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh — took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even — but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after she decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' she'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts — an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

Something very painful was going on in Harry's mind. As Hagrid's story came to a close, she saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than she had ever remembered it before — and she remembered something else, for the first time in her life: a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid was watching her sadly.

"Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter this lot… ."

"Load of old tosh," said Aunt Vera. Harry jumped; he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Aunt Vera certainly seemed to have got back her courage. She was glaring at Hagrid and her fists were clenched.

"Now, you listen here, girl," she snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured — and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdoes, no denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion — asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types — just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end —"

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside her coat. Pointing this at Aunt Vera like a sword, she said, "I'm warning you, Dursley — I'm warning you — one more word…"

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a wild-haired giant, Aunt Vera's courage failed again; she flattened herself against the wall and fell silent.

"That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor. Harriet, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them. "But what happened to Vol-, sorry — I mean, You-Know-Who?"

"Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night she tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see… she was gettin' more an' more powerful — why'd she go?

"Some say she died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if she had enough human left in her to die. Some say she's still out there, bidin' her time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on her side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don' reckon they could've done if she was comin' back.

"Most of us reckon she's still out there somewhere but lost her powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished her, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night she hadn't counted on — I dunno what it was, no one does — but somethin' about you stumped her, all right."

Hagrid looked at Harriet with warmth and respect blazing in her eyes, but Harriet, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A witch? Her? How could she possibly be? She'd spent her life being clouted by Darby, and bullied by Uncle Peter and Aunt Vera; if she was really a witch, why hadn't they been turned into warty toads every time they'd tried to lock her in her cupboard? If she'd once defeated the greatest sorceress in the world, how come Darby had always been able to kick her around like a football?

"Hagrid," she said quietly, "I think you must have made a mistake. I don't think I can be a witch."

To her surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

"Not a witch, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?"

Harry looked into the fire. Now she came to think about it… every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with her had happened when she, Harriet, had been upset or angry… chased by Darby's gang, she had somehow found herself out of their reach… dreading going to school with that ridiculous haircut, she'd managed to make it grow back… and the very last time Darby had hit her, hadn't she got his revenge, without even realizing she was doing it? Hadn't she set a boa constrictor on her?

Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at her.

"See?" said Hagrid. "Harry Potter, not a witch — you wait, you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."

But Aunt Vera wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"Haven't I told you she's not going?" she hissed. "She's going to Stonewall High and she'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters and she needs all sorts of rubbish — spell books and wands and —"

"If she wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop her," growled Hagrid. "Stop Liam an' Jane Potter's daughter goin' ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. Her name's been down ever since she was born. She's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and she won't know herself. She'll be with youngsters of her own sort, fer a change, an' she'll be under the greatest headmistress Hogwarts ever had Alba Dumbled—"

"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HER MAGIC TRICKS!" yelled Aunt Vera.

But she had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized her umbrella and whirled it over her head, "NEVER —" she thundered, "— INSULT — ALBA — DUMBLEDORE — IN — FRONT — OF — ME!"

She brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Darby — there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Darby was dancing on the spot with her hands clasped over her fat bottom, howling in pain. When she turned her back on them, Harry saw a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in her trousers.

Aunt Vera roared. Pulling Uncle Peter and Darby into the other room, she cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at her umbrella and stroked her hair.

"Shouldn'ta lost me temper," she said ruefully, "but it didn't work anyway. Meant ter turn her into a pig, but I suppose she was so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do."

She cast a sideways look at Harriet under her bushy eyebrows.

"Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts," she said. "I'm — er — not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an' get yer letters to yeh an' stuff — one o' the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job."

"Why aren't you supposed to do magic?" asked Harry.

"Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er — got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an' everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great woman, Dumbledore."

"Why were you expelled?"

"It's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," said Hagrid loudly. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that."

She took off her thick black coat and threw it to Harriet.

"You can kip under that," she said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o' doormice in one o' the pockets."


	5. Diagon Alley

**Diagon Alley**

Harriet woke early the next morning. Although she could tell it was daylight, she kept her eyes shut tight.

 _It was a dream_ , she told herself firmly. _I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for witches. When I open my eyes I'll be at home in my cupboard._ There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

 _And there's Uncle Peter knocking on the door_ , Harry thought, her heart sinking. But she still didn't open her eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"All right," Harry mumbled, "I'm getting up."

She sat up and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off her. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid herself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

Harry scrambled to her feet, so happy she felt as though a large balloon was swelling inside her. She went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn't wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid's coat.

"Don't do that."

Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at her and carried on savaging the coat.

"Hagrid!" said Harriet loudly. "There's an owl —"

"Pay her," Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

"What?"

"She wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the pockets."

Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets — bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags… finally, Harriet pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

"Give her five Knuts," said Hagrid sleepily.

"Knuts?"

"The little bronze ones." Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out her leg so Harry could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then she flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

"Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school."

Harriet was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. She had just thought of something that made her feel as though the happy balloon inside her had got a puncture.

"Um — Hagrid?"

"Mm?" said Hagrid, who was pulling on her huge boots.

"I haven't got any money — and you heard Aunt Vera last night… she won't pay for me to go and learn magic."

"Don't worry about that," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching her head. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?"

"But if their house was destroyed —"

"They didn' keep their gold in the house, girl! Nah, first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards' bank. Have a sausage, they're not bad cold — an' I wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake, neither."

"Wizards have banks?"

"Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins." Harriet dropped the bit of sausage she was holding. "Goblins?"

"Yeah — so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe — 'cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o' fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business." Hagrid drew himself up proudly. "She usually gets me ter do important stuff fer her. Fetchin' you — gettin' things from Gringotts — knows she can trust me, see.

"Got everythin'? Come on, then."

Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Aunt Vera had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

"How did you get here?" Harry asked, looking around for another boat.

"Flew," said Hagrid.

" _Flew_?"

"Yeah — but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've got yeh."

They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine her flying.

"Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Harry another of her sideways looks. "If I was ter — er — speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

"Of course not," said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land. "Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?" Harry asked.

"Spells — enchantments," said Hagrid, unfolding her newspaper as he spoke. "They say there's dragons guardin' the high security vaults. And then yeh gotta find yer way — Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh'd die of hunger tryin' ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat."

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read her newspaper, the _Daily Prophet_. Harry had learned from Aunt Vera that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, she'd never had so many questions in her life.

"Ministry o' Magic messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

"There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked, before she could stop himself.

"'Course," said Hagrid. "They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister, o' course, but she'd never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelia Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So she pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, askin' fer advice."

"But what does a Ministry of Magic _do_?"

"Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there's still witches an' wizards up an' down the country."

"Why?"

" _Why_? Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we're best left alone."

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up her newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Harriet couldn't blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, she kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, "See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?"

"Hagrid," said Harry, panting a bit as she ran to keep up, "did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?"

"Well, so they say," said Hagrid. "Crikey, I'd like a dragon."

"You'd _like_ one?"

"Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go."

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes' time. Hagrid, who didn't understand "Muggle money," as she called it, gave the bills to Harry so she could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

"Still got yer letter, Harry?" she asked as she counted stitches.

Harry took the parchment envelope out of her pocket.

"Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything yeh need."

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper she hadn't noticed the night before, and read: _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _UNIFORM_

 _First-year students will require:_

 _1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

 _2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

 _3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

 _4\. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

 _Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags_

 _COURSE BOOKS_

 _All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

 _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)by Miranda Goshawk_

 _A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_

 _Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

 _A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

 _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_

 _Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_

 _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_

 _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble_

 _OTHER EQUIPMENT_

 _1 wand_

 _1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

 _1 set of glass or crystal phials_

 _1 telescope set_

 _1 brass scales_

 _Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad_

 _PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_

"Can we buy all this in London?" Harriet wondered aloud.

"If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid.

Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where she was going, she was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. She got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

"I don't know how the Muggles manage without magic," she said as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that she parted the crowd easily; all Harry had to do was keep close behind her. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of witch gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harriet hadn't known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, she might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told her so far was unbelievable, Harry couldn't help trusting her.

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place."

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only she and Hagrid could see it. Before she could mention this, Hagrid had steered her inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old men were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little woman in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at her, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?"

"Can't, Tam, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Harry's shoulder and making Harry's knees buckle.

"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harriet, "is this — can this be —?"

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter… what an honor."

She hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized her hand, tears in her eyes.

"Welcome back, Miss Potter, welcome back."

Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at her. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Doric Crockford, Miss Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."

"Always wanted to shake your hand — I'm all of a flutter."

"Delighted, Miss Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedala Diggle."

"I've seen you before!" said Harry, as Dedala Diggle's top hat fell off in her excitement. "You bowed to me once in a shop."

"She remembers!" cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. "Did you hear that? She remembers me!" Harry shook hands again and again — Doric Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young woman made her way forward, very nervously. One of her eyes was twitching.

"Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how ppleased I am to meet you."

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor Quirrell, as though she'd rather not think about it. "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" She laughed nervously. "You'll be ggetting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, mmyself." She looked terrified at the very thought.

But the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harriet to herself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make herself heard over the babble.

"Must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, Harry."

Doric Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Harriet.

"Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was tremblin' ter meet yeh — mind you, she's usually tremblin'."

"Is he always that nervous?"

"Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. She was fine while she was studyin' outta books but then she took a year off ter get some firsthand experience… They say she met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag — never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of her own subject — now, where's me umbrella?"

Vampires? Hags? Harry's head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

"Three up… two across…" she muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry."

She tapped the wall three times with the point of her umbrella.

The brick she had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley."

She grinned at Harry's amazement. They stepped through the archway. Harriet looked quickly over her shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes — Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring — Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money first."

Harry wished she had about eight more eyes. She turned her head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump man outside an Apothecary was shaking his head as they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they're mad…"

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium — Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several girls of about Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Harriet heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand — fastest ever —" There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon…

"Gringotts," said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was —

"Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward her. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harriet. She had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. She bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

 _Enter, stranger, but take heed_

 _Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

 _For those who take, but do not earn,_

 _Must pay most dearly in their turn._

 _So if you seek beneath our floors_

 _A treasure that was never yours,_

 _Thief, you have been warned, beware_

 _Of finding more than treasure there._

"Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harriet made for the counter.

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Miss Harriet Potter's safe."

"You have her key, sir?"

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and she started emptying her pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled her nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

"That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out her chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter carefully.

"Very well," she said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside her pockets, she and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" Harry asked.

"Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh that."

Griphook held the door open for them. Harriet, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in — Hagrid with some difficulty — and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harriet tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn't steering.

Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but she kept them wide open. Once, she thought she saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

"I never know," Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, "what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?"

"Stalagmite's got an 'm' in it," said Hagrid. "An' don' ask me questions just now, I think I'm gonna be sick."

She did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop her knees from trembling.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

"All yours," smiled Hagrid.

All Harry's — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn't have known about this or they'd have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a small fortune belonging to her, buried deep under London.

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.

"The gold ones are Galleons," she explained. "Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twentynine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll keep the rest safe for yeh." He turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled her back by the scruff of her neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

"Stand back," said Griphook importantly. She stroked the door gently with one of her long fingers and it simply melted away.

"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.

"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harriet asked.

"About once every ten years," said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Harry was sure, and she leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least — but at first she thought it was empty. Then she noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside her coat. Harry longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

"Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on the way back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn't know where to run first now that she had a bag full of money. She didn't have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that she was holding more money than she'd had in his whole life — more money than even Darby had ever had.

"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward Monsieur Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts." She did still look a bit sick, so Harry entered Monsieur Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous.

Monsieur Malkin was a squat, smiling wizard dressed all in mauve.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harriet started to speak. "Got the lot here — another young girl being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a girl with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second wizard pinned up her long black robes. Monsieur Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to her slipped a long robe over her head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the girl, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"My mother's next door buying my books and father's up the street looking at wands," said the girl. She had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully mother into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Darby.

"Have _you_ got your own broom?" the girl went on.

"No," said Harry.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be.

" _I_ do — Mother says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm," said Harriet, wishing she could say something a bit more interesting.

"I say, look at that woman!" said the girl suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show she couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," said Harriet, pleased to know something the girl didn't. "She works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of her. She's a sort of servant, isn't she?"

"She's the gamekeeper," said Harry. She was liking the girl less and less every second.

"Yes, exactly. I heard she's a sort of savage — lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then she gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to her bed."

"I think she's brilliant," said Harry coldly.

" _Do_ you?" said the girl, with a slight sneer. "Why is she with you? Where are your parents?" "They're dead," said Harriet shortly. She didn't feel much like going into the matter with this girl.

"Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"

But before Harry could answer, Monsieur Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the girl, hopped down from the footstool.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling girl.

Harry was rather quiet as she ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought her (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

"What's up?" said Hagrid.

"Nothing," Harriet lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when she found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, she said, "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?"

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know — not knowin' about Quidditch!"

"Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. She told Hagrid about the pale girl in Monsieur Malkin's.

"— and she said people from Muggle families shouldn't even be allowed in —"

"Yer not from a Muggle family. If she'd known who yeh were — she's grown up knowin' yer name if her parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does she know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line o' Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

"So what is Quidditch?"

"It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like — like soccer in the Muggle world — everyone follows Quidditch — played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules."

"And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

"School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but —"

"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," said Harriet gloomily.

"Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."

"Vol-, sorry —You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?"

"Years an' years ago," said Hagrid.

They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Darby, who never read anything, would have been wild to get her hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from _Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More)_ by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

"I was trying to find out how to curse Darby."

"I'm not sayin' that's not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the Muggle world except in very special circumstances," said Hagrid. "An' anyway, yeh couldn' work any of them curses yet, yeh'll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level."

Hagrid wouldn't let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either ("It says pewter on yer list"), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry herself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry's list again.

"Just yer wand left — A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

Harriet felt herself go red.

"You don't have to —"

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at — an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with his head under his wing. She couldn't stop stammering her thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell.

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now — only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand."

A magic wand… this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though she had entered a very strict library; she swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to her and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of her neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and she got quickly off the spindly chair.

An old woman was standing before them, her wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the woman. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your father's eyes. It seems only yesterday he was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Ms. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished she would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

"Your mother, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your mother favored it — it's really the wand that chooses the witch, of course."

Ms. Ollivander had come so close that she and Harriet were almost nose to nose. Harry could see herself reflected in those misty eyes.

"And that's where…"

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," she said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

She shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid.

"Ruby! Ruby Hagrid! How nice to see you again… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, ma'am, yes," said Hagrid.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Ms. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

"Er — yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling her feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," she added brightly.

"But you don't use them?" said Ms. Ollivander sharply. "Oh, no, ma'am," said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed she gripped her pink umbrella very tightly as she spoke.

"Hmmm," said Ms. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. "Well, now — Miss Potter. Let me see." She pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Er — well, I'm right-handed," said Harry.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." She measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As she measured, she said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Ms. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

Harriet suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between her nostrils, was doing this on its own. Ms. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," she said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harriet took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Ms. Ollivander snatched it out of her hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —"

Harry tried — but she had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Ms. Ollivander.

"No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And tried. She had no idea what Ms. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Ms. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier she seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harriet took the wand. She felt a sudden warmth in her fingers. She raised the wand above her head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Ms. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"

She put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious… curious…"

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Ms. Ollivander fixed Harry with her pale stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Miss Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its sister — why, its sister gave you that scar."

Harry swallowed.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great."

Harry shivered. She wasn't sure he liked Ms. Ollivander too much. She paid seven gold Galleons for her wand, and Ms. Ollivander bowed them from her shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harriet didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; she didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped her on the shoulder.

"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," she said.

She bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid.

Harriet wasn't sure she could explain. She'd just had the best birthday of her life — and yet — she chewed her hamburger, trying to find the words.

"Everyone thinks I'm special," she said at last. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Ms. Ollivander… but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry — I mean, the night my parents died."

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild hair and eyebrows she wore a very kind smile.

"Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do, 'smatter of fact."

Hagrid helped Harriet on to the train that would take her back to the Dursleys, then handed her an envelope.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, " she said. "First o' September — King's Cross — it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, he'll know where to find me… . See yeh soon, Harry."

The train pulled out of the station. Harriet wanted to watch Hagrid until she was out of sight; she rose in her seat and pressed her nose against the window, but she blinked and Hagrid had gone.


End file.
